BRIAN RECEIVES A LETTER.
Notwithstanding the hospitable invitation of Mr. Frettlby, Brian
refused to stay at Yabba Yallook that night, but after saying good-bye
to Madge, mounted his horse and rode slowly away in the moonlight. He
felt very happy, and letting the reins lie on his horse's neck, he gave
himself up unreservedly to his thoughts. ATRA CURA certainly did not
sit behind the horseman on this night; and Brian, to his surprise,
found himself singing "Kitty of Coleraine," as he rode along in the
silver moonlight. And was he not right to sing when the future seemed
so bright and pleasant? Oh, yes! they would live on the ocean, and she
would find how much pleasanter it was on the restless waters, with
their solemn sense of mystery, than on the crowded land.
"Was not the sea
Made for the free--
Land for courts and slaves alone?"
Moore was perfectly right. She would learn that when with a fair wind,
and all sail set, they were flying over the blue Pacific waters.
And then they would go home to Ireland to the ancestral home of the
Fitzgeralds, where he would lead her in under the arch, with "CEAD
MILLE FAILTHE" on it, and everyone would bless the fair young bride.
Why should he trouble himself about the crime of another? No! He had
made a resolve, and intended to keep it; he would put this secret with
which he had been entrusted behind his back, and would wander about the
world with Madge and--her father. He felt a sudden chill come over him
as he murmured the last words to himself "her father."
"I'm a fool," he said, impatiently, as he gathered up the reins, and
spurred his horse into a canter. "It can make no difference to me so
long as Madge remains ignorant; but to sit beside him, to eat with him,
to have him always present like a skeleton at a feast--God help me!"
He urged his horse into a gallop, and as he rushed over the turf, with
the fresh, cool night wind blowing keenly against his face, he felt a
sense of relief, as though he were leaving some dark spectre behind. On
he galloped, with the blood throbbing in his young veins, over miles of
plain, with the dark-blue, star-studded sky above, and the pale moon
shining down on him--past a silent shepherd's hut, which stood near a
wide creek; splashing through the cool water, which wound through the
dark plain like a thread of silver in the moonlight--then, again, the
wide, grassy plain, dotted here and there with tall clumps of shadowy
trees, and on either side he could see the sheep skurrying away like
fantastic spectres--on--on--ever on, until his own homestead appears,
and he sees the star-like light shining brightly in the distance--a
long avenue of tall trees, over whose wavering shadows his horse
thundered, and then the wide grassy space in front of the house, with
the clamorous barking of dogs. A groom, roused by the clatter of hoofs
up the avenue, comes round the side of the house, and Brian leaps off
his horse, and flinging the reins to the man, walks into his own room.
There he finds a lighted lamp, brandy and soda on the table, and a
packet of letters and newspapers. He flung his hat on the sofa, and
opened the window and door, so as to let in the cool breeze; then
mixing for himself a glass of brandy and soda, he turned up the lamp,
and prepared to read his letters. The first he took up was from a lady.
"Always a she correspondent for me," says Isaac Disraeli, "provided she
does not cross." Brian's correspondence did not cross, but
notwithstanding this, after reading half a page of small talk and
scandal, he flung the letter on the table with an impatient
ejaculation. The other letters were principally business ones, but the
last one proved to be from Calton, and Fitzgerald opened it with a
sensation of pleasure. Calton was a capital letter-writer, and his
epistles had done much to cheer Fitzgerald in the dismal period which
succeeded his acquittal of Whyte's murder, when he was in danger of
getting into a morbid state of mind. Brian, therefore, sipped his
brandy and soda, and, lying back in his chair, prepared to enjoy
himself.
"My dear Fitzgerald," wrote Calton his peculiarly clear handwriting,
which was such an exception to the usual crabbed hieroglyphics of his
brethren of the bar, "while you are enjoying the cool breezes and
delightful freshness of the country, here am I, with numerous other
poor devils, cooped up in this hot and dusty city. How I wish I were
with you in the land of Goschen, by the rolling waters of the Murray,
where everything is bright and green, and unsophisticated--the two
latter terms are almost identical--instead of which my view is bounded
by bricks and mortar, and the muddy waters of the Yarra have to do duty
for your noble river. Ah! I too have lived in Arcadia, but I don't now:
and even if some power gave me the choice to go back again, I am not
sure that I would accept. Arcadia, after all, is a lotus-eating
Paradise of blissful ignorance, and I love the world with its pomps,
vanities, and wickedness. While you, therefore, oh Corydon--don't be
afraid, I'm not going to quote Virgil--are studying Nature's book, I am
deep in the musty leaves of Themis' volume, but I dare say that the
great mother teaches you much better things than her artificial
daughter does me. However, you remember that pithy proverb, 'When one
is in Rome, one must not speak ill of the Pope,' so being in the legal
profession, I must respect its muse. I suppose when you saw that this
letter came from a law office, you wondered what the deuce a lawyer was
writing to you for, and my handwriting, no doubt suggested a
writ--pshaw! I am wrong there, you are past the age of writs--not that
I hint that you are old; by no means--you are just at that appreciative
age when a man enjoys life most, when the fire of youth is tempered by
the experience of age, and one knows how to enjoy to the utmost the
good things of this world, videlicet--love, wine, and friendship. I am
afraid I am growing poetical, which is a bad thing for a lawyer, for
the flower of poetry cannot flourish in the arid wastes of the law. On
reading what I have written, I find I have been as discursive as
Praed's Vicar, and as this letter is supposed to be a business one, I
must deny myself the luxury of following out a train of idle ideas, and
write sense. I suppose you still hold the secret which Rosanna Moore
entrusted you with--ah! you see I know her name, and why?--simply
because, with the natural curiosity of the human race, I have been
trying to find out who murdered Oliver Whyte, and as the ARGUS very
cleverly pointed out Rosanna Moore as likely to be at the bottom of the
whole affair, I have been learning her past history. The secret of
Whyte's murder, and the reason for it, is known to you, but you refuse,
even in the interests of justice, to reveal it--why, I don't know; but
we all have our little faults, and from an amiable though mistaken
sense of--shall I say--duty?--you refuse to deliver up the man whose
cowardly crime so nearly cost you your life. After your departure from
Melbourne every one said, 'The hansom cab tragedy is at an end, and the
murderer will never be discovered.' I ventured to disagree with the
wiseacres who made such a remark, and asked myself, 'Who was this woman
who died at Mother Guttersnipe's?' Receiving no satisfactory answer
from myself, I determined to find out, and took steps accordingly. In
the first place, I learned from Roger Moreland, who, if you remember,
was a witness against you at the trial, that Whyte and Rosanna Moore
had come out to Sydney in the JOHN ELDER about a year ago as Mr. and
Mrs. Whyte. I need hardly say that they did not think it needful to go
through the formality of marriage, as such a tie might have been found
inconvenient on some future occasion. Moreland knew nothing about
Rosanna Moore, and advised me to give up the search, as, coming from a
city like London, it would be difficult to find anyone that knew her
there. Notwithstanding this, I telegraphed home to a friend of mine,
who is a bit of an amateur detective, 'Find out the name and all about
the woman who left England in the JOHN ELDER on the 21st day of August,
18--, as wife of Oliver Whyte.' MIRABILE DICTU, he found out all about
her, and knowing, as you do, what a maelstrom of humanity London is,
you must admit my friend was clever. It appears, however, that the task
I set him was easier than he expected, for the so-called Mrs. Whyte was
rather a notorious individual in her own way. She was a burlesque
actress at the Frivolity Theatre in London, and, being a very handsome
woman, had been photographed innumerable times. Consequently, when she
very foolishly went with Whyte to choose a berth on board the boat, she
was recognised by the clerks in the office as Rosanna Moore, better
known as Musette of the Frivolity. Why she ran away with Whyte I cannot
tell you. With reference to men understanding women, I refer you to
Balzac's remark anent the same. Perhaps Musette got weary of St. John's
Wood and champagne suppers, and longed for the purer air of her native
land. Ah! you open your eyes at this latter statement--you are
surprised--no, on second thoughts you are not, because she told you
herself that she was a native of Sydney, and had gone home in 1858,
after a triumphant career of acting in Melbourne. And why did she leave
the applauding Melbourne public and the flesh-pots of Egypt? You know
this also. She ran away with a rich young squatter, with more money
than morals, who happened to be in Melbourne at the time. She seems to
have had a weakness for running away. But why she chose Whyte to go
with this time puzzles me. He was not rich, not particularly
good-looking, had no position, and a bad temper. How do I know all
these traits of Mr. Whyte's character, morally and socially? Easily
enough; my omniscient friend found them all out. Mr. Oliver Whyte was
the son of a London tailor, and his father being well off, retired into
a private life, and ultimately went the way of all flesh. His son,
finding himself with a capital income, and a pretty taste for
amusement, cut the shop of his late lamented parent, found out that his
family had come over with the Conqueror--Glanville de Whyte helped to
sew the Bayeux tapestry, I suppose--and graduated at the Frivolity
Theatre as a masher. In common with the other gilded youth of the day,
he worshipped at the gas-lit shrine of Musette, and the goddess,
pleased with his incense, left her other admirers in the lurch, and ran
off with fortunate Mr. Whyte. So far as this goes there is nothing to
show why the murder was committed. Men do not perpetrate crimes for the
sake of light o' loves like Musette, unless, indeed, some wretched
youth embezzles money to buy jewellery for his divinity. The career of
Musette, in London, was simply that of a clever member of the
DEMI-MONDE, and, as far as I can learn, no one was so much in love with
her as to commit a crime for her sake. So far so good; the motive of
the crime must be found in Australia. Whyte had spent nearly all his
money in England, and, consequently, Musette and her lover arrived in
Sydney with comparatively very little cash. However, with an
Epicurean-like philosophy, they enjoyed themselves on what little they
had, and then came to Melbourne, where they stayed at a second-rate
hotel. Musette, I may tell you, had one special vice, a common
one--drink. She loved champagne, and drank a good deal of it.
Consequently, on arriving at Melbourne, and finding that a new
generation had arisen, which knew not Joseph--I mean Musette--she
drowned her sorrows in the flowing bowl, and went out after a quarrel
with Mr. Whyte, to view Melbourne by night--a familiar scene to her, no
doubt. What took her to Little Bourke Street I don't know. Perhaps she
got lost--perhaps it had been a favourite walk of hers in the old days;
at all events she was found dead drunk in that unsavoury locality, by
Sal Rawlins. I know this is so, because Sal told me so herself. Sal
acted the part of the good Samaritan--took her to the squalid den she
called home, and there Rosanna Moore fell dangerously ill. Whyte, who
had missed her, found out where she was, and that she was too ill to be
removed. I presume he was rather glad to get rid of such an
encumbrance, so he went back to his lodgings at St. Kilda, which,
judging from the landlady's story, he must have occupied for some time,
while Rosanna Moore was drinking herself to death in a quiet hotel.
Still he does not break off his connection with the dying woman; but
one night is murdered in a hansom cab, and that same night Rosanna
Moore dies. So, from all appearance, everything is ended; not so, for
before dying Rosanna sends for Brian Fitzgerald at his club, and
reveals to him a secret which he locks up in his own heart. The writer
of this letter has a theory--a fanciful one, if you will--that the
secret told to Brian Fitzgerald contains the mystery of Oliver Whyte's
death. Now then, have I not found out a good deal without you, and do
you still decline to reveal the rest? I do not say you know who killed
Whyte, but I do say you know sufficient to lead to the detection of the
murderer. If you tell me, so much the better, both for your own sense
of justice and for your peace of mind; if you do not--well, I shall
find out without you. I have taken, and still take, a great interest in
this strange case, and I have sworn to bring the murderer to justice;
so I make this last appeal to you to tell me what you know. If you
refuse, I will set to work to find out all about Rosanna Moore prior to
her departure from Australia in 1858, and I am certain sooner or later
to discover the secret which led to Whyte's murder. If there is any
strong reason why it should be kept silent, I perhaps, will come round
to your view, and let the matter drop; but if I have to find it out
myself, the murderer of Oliver Whyte need expect no mercy at my hands.
So think over what I have said; if I do not hear from you within the
next week, I shall regard your decision as final, and pursue the search
myself. I am sure, my dear Fitzgerald, you will find this letter too
long, in spite of the interesting story it contains, so I will have
pity on you, and draw to a close. Remember me to Miss Frettlby and to
her father. With kind regards to yourself, I remain, yours very truly,
"DUNCAN CALTON."
When Fitzgerald had finished the last of the closely-written sheets, he
let the letter fall from his hands, and, leaning back in his chair,
stared blankly into the dawning light outside. He arose after a few
moments, and, pouring himself out a glass of brandy, drank it quickly.
Then mechanically lighting a cigar, he stepped out of the door into the
fresh beauty of the dawn. There was a soft crimson glow in the east,
which announced the approach of the sun, and he could hear the chirping
of the awakening birds in the trees. But Brian did not see the
marvellous breaking of the dawn. He stood staring at the red light
flaring in the east, and thinking of Calton's letter.
"I can do no more," he said bitterly, leaning his head against the wall
of the house. "There is only one way of stopping Calton, and that is by
telling him all. My poor Madge! My poor Madge!"
A soft wind arose, and rustled among the trees, and there appeared
great shafts of crimson light in the east; then, with a sudden blaze,
the sun peered over the brim of the wide plain. The warm yellow rays
touched lightly the comely head of the weary man, and, turning round,
he held up his arms to the great luminary, as though he were a
fire-worshipper.
"I accept the omen of the dawn," he cried, "for her life and for mine."